


The Monster of West End

by ladymacbeth99



Category: Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, La Belle et la Bête | Beauty and the Beast (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Human/Monster Romance, Inspired by Dickens, Master & Servant, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24542185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymacbeth99/pseuds/ladymacbeth99
Summary: A retelling of the fairy tale set in the early Victorian Era.Viola Weston is desperate to pay off her family's debts. Stubborn and self-reliant, she would rather look for work than seek an advantageous marriage. She is utterly unprepared for her eccentric new employer's beastly appearance--but quickly charmed by his warm heart and cheerful disposition.Albert Carlyle is lonely: cursed from birth with a monstrous form, but coldly tolerated by society for his wealth. People are afraid of him, no matter how hard he tries to make himself agreeable. He has resigned himself to a quiet life collecting butterflies and ignoring judgmental whispers--until Viola upends his comfortable, complacent existence.Can Viola set aside her pride long enough to accept his help? Can Albert find the courage to make his affections known? Or will the cruelties of the world tear their budding relationship apart?
Relationships: Belle | Beauty/La Bête | Beast (La Belle et la Bête)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 53





	1. The Interview

**London, 1837**

It was a dull, overcast January afternoon when young Miss Viola Weston hired a hansom cab to take her to an unfamiliar part of town. Damp, heavy snowflakes drifted from the hazy sky and turned the cobblestone streets to rivers of grey slush. Clumps of snow clung to the horse’s mane and even coated the driver’s hat and cape.

Viola winced at the very thought of the unnecessary expense—usually she walked everywhere, regardless of the distance or cold, because she could hardly afford the fare—but today she would regard it as an investment of sorts.

She smoothed out the newspaper advertisement that she had tucked into her skirt pocket, though the runny ink was smudging onto her fingers.

_Help Wanted: Skilled seamstress to serve in the household of Mr. Albert Carlyle, esq. Three pounds a week, plus room and board. Please bring samples of your work._

Viola could hardly be presentable for an interview in a respectable household if she arrived flushed and windswept. From the cab window, she watched pedestrians burying their faces in mufflers and hunching over to shield from the biting chill. She thought of her father, left behind in a dismal, bare room, struggling to warm his hands by the feeble coal stove.

“Please, my dear, do not take this position if it is demeaning and low,” her father had urged her this morning. “We can get by without you slaving away in some factory or scrubbing floors.”

Viola had bit her tongue against the obvious wry observation that their family was _not_ , in fact, getting by: they were living in the Marshalsea debtors’ prison. For years, their family’s pride had prevented them from seeking help from friends and relations, until they found themselves buried in debts.

True humility, and seeking a domestic position in a wealthy household, was the only remedy Viola could see. That, or an advantageous marriage, but she had no desire to leap from one prison to a wholly different one.

As she rode on, the houses and buildings grew smarter, neater. Gone were the shabby, narrow pawn shops and public houses with dingy windows and peeling paint; they gave way to gilded music halls and libraries with gleaming marble pillars. The unfamiliar address that she had given to the cab driver turned out to be a brick townhouse with newly-painted green shutters, nestled comfortably in a nouveau riche neighborhood.

Promising, but not intimidatingly ornate, she noted with satisfaction.

Her knock on the front door was brisk and confident. She straightened her bonnet and smoothed back the wisps of hair that had begun to escape in the breeze. She was greeted by a sullen-looking housekeeper with an upturned nose.

“Yes? What is your business?”

Her prepared speech tumbled out in a rush. “Hello, my name is Weston, Viola Weston, and I’ve come about the position you advertised in the newspaper—if it’s still available?”

“Slow down, child, what are you saying?”

Viola exhaled in a gust, endeavoring to speak more coherently. “I was wondering if the position is still available. I sent you a letter…?”

“Oh, Miss Weston, of course, you’re expected. Do come inside.” Despite her words of welcome, the housekeeper peered at Viola critically as she beckoned her inside. “You’re rather younger than I was expecting,” she remarked.

Viola met her gaze without wavering and lifted her chin defiantly, refusing to feel self-conscious. Young hands were more nimble with a needle, and young eyes could see up close without spectacles.

The interior of the house was just as cheerful and comfortable as the exterior promised. Though the foyer was long and narrow, it felt bright and airy with its sunshine-colored wallpaper and stair carpets flecked with poppies and daisies. It was as if someone were trying to bring the English countryside inside, to spite the dingy, smoggy city outside.

The housekeeper led her through a front parlor, but instead of directing her to sit, crossed to a heavy oak door on the other side.

The housekeeper rapped her knuckles on the door. “Sir, Miss Weston is here to see you.”

From within, a smooth, refined tenor voice responded. “Promptly on schedule. Excellent. Be kind enough to send her in, Mrs. Hutchinson.”

The housekeeper leaned closer to Viola to speak to her in a whisper. “The Master asked to meet you in his study. He thinks the front parlor is too formal.”

Viola chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Is he an agreeable man, Mr. Carlyle?” she asked in an undertone. “Do you like him as an employer?”

A curious look passed over the housekeeper’s face. “Agreeable, yes. He’s a fair and generous employer. A _man?_ That depends on who you ask.”

Before Viola could make any sense of this cryptic remark, the housekeeper opened the door and all but thrust her into the study.

A cursory glance over the room suggested a man of curious tastes and scientific interests. Much of the wallpaper was hidden by detailed diagrams of vascular plants and root systems, and framed collections of beetles and butterflies pinned to cards. The mantle was bedecked with ammonite fossils, and the bookshelves stuffed with taxidermied weasels and hedgehogs.

But Viola’s impressions of the study quickly faded from her attention when she caught sight of its occupant.

She thought she had prepared herself for any and every possibility when meeting her prospective employer, but she could not have been more wrong. The figure standing by the desk was shaped vaguely like a man—and yet it was not a man.

It stood nearly seven feet tall, its body lean and lithe as an antelope. Every visible inch of skin was covered in thick, shaggy chestnut-brown fur. Its long face was framed in a heart shape by a soft tufted black mane, like a lion’s, and from the top of its head sprouted two wide, elaborate antlers, like those of an elk. Its arms and hands seemed dexterous like a human’s, but each of the fingers was tipped with a sharp, curved talon.

Surely—surely that soft, genteel voice had not come from this creature?

Despite the figure’s bizarre chimera appearance, he was dressed neatly as a gentleman in grey silk waistcoat and cravat. When he looked up from the letters on his desk, she saw his eyes were large and catlike, golden amber.

“Miss…Weston, is that correct? Thank you for coming. Please, do be seated.”

She sank wordlessly into a chair. He seated himself in the armchair opposite, folding his absurdly long legs underneath it—she then noticed he wore no shoes, for his feet were formed into two wide, splayed toes like a camel’s.

If he noticed her distraction, he cheerfully ignored it. “Will you take some tea, Miss Weston? It is such a _dismally_ cold day and I know you have come some distance to us.”

She accepted the steaming cup and saucer with numb hands, still unable to unfurrow her nonplussed expression. His manners and tone were impeccable, courteous, designed to put her at ease, yet he seemed determined not to acknowledge the reason for her stunned silence.

“Ordinarily, I would not accept a domestic employee without references,” he said as he offered her the sugar bowl, “but at present I am more concerned with your mending skills. I trust you have brought samples of your work, as requested?”

“Yes—yes, I have,” she said, shaking herself out of her confused haze. She drew out a fine cambric handkerchief that she had embroidered with bluebells and daisies. He put a pair of pince-nez on the end of his long snout-like nose to examine the stitches more closely.

“Hmm. Yes, you have a neat hand,” he muttered in an approving tone. “And you can mend just as well?”

“Yes, I mend all my own clothes. And my father’s.”

He nodded, giving her back the handkerchief, carefully avoiding brushing her hand in the action.

Viola could not take it any longer. “Forgive me for being blunt, sir, but I must ask. What…manner of being are you, exactly?”

He raised his eyebrows.

“That was a terribly rude question,” Viola sighed. Why could she never simply keep her mouth shut?

Instead of contorting his face in outrage, as she might have expected, Mr. Carlyle chuckled. His smile revealed a row of dagger-sharp teeth.

“If I knew the answer to that, Miss Weston, I would certainly tell you,” he said.

His light, conversational tone emboldened her to press onward. “And have you always been—like this?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat.

“As far as I can remember, yes. My guardians told me I was born like this, though I suppose I must take their word for it.”

Viola studied him for a moment in disbelief. He stared right back at her over his teacup with a placid smile.

“I apologize for all the impudent questions,” she said with some chagrin. “I suppose you must be used to it by now.”

“Most people in my circle are content to leave those questions unspoken. It is truly amazing what eccentricities people will tolerate when enough money is involved,” he added wryly.

Viola straightened in her seat. “I cannot bear to leave the obvious unspoken, sir. I think it is an affront to common sense. But I understand if my lack of delicacy makes me an undesirable candidate for your household.”

He cocked his head to the side as he studied her. Despite his inhuman features, his expressions were surprisingly easy to decipher.

“Quite the contrary, Miss Weston,” he said mildly. “I find your frankness refreshing. As you say, it is foolish to tiptoe around the obvious.” He opened a small chest on the side table and pulled out a pipe. “Will you object if I smoke? Some ladies find the aroma offensive.”

“Not at all, sir.”

He methodically filled his pipe and lit it before turning his attention back to her. The wisps of tobacco smoke smelled warm and redolent, like spiced tea from India.

“You haven’t yet asked the most obvious question,” he noted. “Why should anyone employ their own seamstress instead of bringing their clothes to a tailor?”

“The thought did occur to me, but I assumed you would explain in due course.”

“The answer is somewhat…awkward. But your candor has convinced me that I may be just as forthright with you.”

For the first time in their interview, Mr. Carlyle looked uncomfortable, his amber eyes fixed determinedly on his lap. He took a deep breath.

“As you might imagine, Miss Weston, tailors find me a frustratingly difficult subject to fit. And I am…rather prone to tearing my clothes if I am not careful,” he added, holding up his sharp claws in explanation.

“Ah.” Her heart swelled with pity. “That must be quite irritating for you. I can understand why our arrangement might be more practical in the long term.”

His eyes were wide, earnest. “Are the terms of this arrangement agreeable to you, Miss Weston? That is to say—you needn’t make up your mind this very instant, you may think on it as long as—”

“They are,” she said emphatically. “Your offer is fair and generous.”

He smiled, again displaying that row of jagged teeth. “I am pleased to hear that. I am prepared to take you on immediately, on a trial basis of course.”

There was a brief pause in the conversation as he poured out another round of tea and offered her a plate of biscuits. His solicitous manner made her feel more like an honored guest than a potential employee.

“Have you any family in the city, Miss Weston?”

“Yes, I live with my father. He used to be a clockmaker, quite a good one in fact.” She fiddled with a loose strand of lace at the edge of her sleeve. “Unfortunately his health has forced him to set aside his business, which is why I must look for work.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it skirted uncomfortably around the truth.

She had come to this interview intending to be forthright about her family’s financial situation. But now that the moment had come, she felt too queasy at the thought of this strange, kindly gentleman knowing how desperate their circumstances were.

_No, I can’t mention the debts. Not while he’s speaking to me like an equal. He’ll look down on Father—or worse, he’ll feel sorry for me._

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. Carlyle said. “I always give my staff Sunday afternoons off, but perhaps you would like the entire day to visit him, if he is in poor health.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir. I should like that very much.”

“That’s settled, then.”

Viola glanced nervously at the sun outside, weakly sinking toward the horizon. “Mr. Carlyle, would you happen to have the time?”

He drew out a silver pocket watch. “Twenty minutes past five. Are you expected elsewhere?”

“No, sir, but I must get back before the gates—” ( _before the gates to the Marshalsea are locked_ ) “—before dark, that is.”

She colored a little at her slip, but he did not comment on it.

“Are you certain that’s wise? This blizzard seems only to be getting worse. Wouldn’t you rather set out in the morning? There is a spare bedroom in the servants’ quarters, and I’m sure my housekeeper could lend you some nightclothes.”

They both froze for a moment, listening in dismay as the wind howled over the chimney and made the fire stutter. The shutters rattled against the windows as if some unseen creature was struggling to get inside.

Nevertheless, she pulled on her shawl and replied, “Thank you for the offer, but my father will fret if I do not come home.”

“Then do take care, Miss Weston. I’ll hire a cab to take you—”

“No need, sir. I can hire my own cab.” She winced: that had come out sharper than she had intended. It would have been perfectly ordinary courtesy for her new employer to help with travel expenses, but it was now so ingrained in her to pretend she needed no help, that she no longer knew how to accept it.

Mr. Carlyle looked a trifle crestfallen, and she suddenly wished she could apologize. But he quickly recovered and smoothed over the awkward moment.

“In that case, I shall see you first thing tomorrow, if that’s quite convenient,” he said briskly, rising from his seat to bid her farewell.

“It is. Thank you for everything, Mr. Carlyle,” she added with feeling; “I am much obliged to you for the opportunity, and for your hospitality.”

She extended a hand for him to shake. He stared at her uncertainly for a moment. When he hesitantly took it, he bowed his head and kissed the air above her hand, as if he were taking leave of a duchess.

She suppressed a shiver at the subtle scrape of his claws against her palm.


	2. Refuge

She ought to have taken Mr. Carlyle’s offer the first time, Viola noted ruefully a few hours later. It would have been less damaging to her pride and her health.

The carriage wheels had become stuck in a snowbank when the cabbie took a turn too sharply. After some futile attempts to dig the cab back out of the snow, she was obliged to walk the rest of the way home. By that time, the church bells had long since tolled five, and the prison gates were locked. No one would be let in or out until morning.

Viola groaned in frustration, pushing at the doors in vain.

“I’m sorry, Miss Weston, but rules is rules,” the gatekeeper said with a regretful shrug. “If I make an exception for you, I’ll be needing to make an exception for everybody.”

“I know, I know,” she grumbled. “Will you at least send word to my father that I’ve gone back to my employer’s for the night? I don’t want him to be worried.”

“Will do, miss.”

The moment she turned back down Borough High Street, she realized she had no money left for another cab. Suppressing a groan, she wrapped her shawl tighter about her shoulders and trudged on.

No use dawdling or complaining: this side of London was dangerous after dark for a young woman. And the snow was swirling thicker and faster.

For the first twenty minutes of her walk, she was able to stave off the cold by walking briskly. But her boots were shabby and worn, and her toes quickly became numb as she sloshed through half-frozen mud puddles. Her stockings were absolutely soaked through. She cupped her hands around her mouth and nose to try and warm them with her breath.

Her walk took her north and west across the river. In her rush, she took a shortcut through a narrow alley that she would otherwise have skirted around. Her steps hastened as she passed a certain storefront wedged between a gin house and a druggist—the tarnished sign on the door read _Mr. Janus L. Beecham_ , and in peeling paint underneath, _Money Lent_.

She tried to keep facing determinedly forward until she passed the shadowy doorstep, but despite herself, her eyes were drawn to the window. A familiar face stared back at her: middle-aged, sallow, thin lips drawing into a sneer of recognition.

Viola shuddered with a chill that had little to do with the wintry air, nearly breaking into a run to leave the lending-house behind. The door opened and a jovial voice called down the alley.

“Miss Weston, what a pleasant surprise. No time to spare for an old friend?”

Viola refused to turn back and acknowledge him. The man’s agreeable tone became mocking.

“Ah I forgot, the high and mighty Miss Weston would never deign to visit my humble abode. Found yourself a rich husband yet, have you? An earl? A duke?”

_Ignore him, ignore him, don’t provoke him, he could make Father’s life even more miserable if he wants…_

“You have no place else to go, Viola. It’s a cold world out there for a debtor’s daughter. You cannot evade me forever.”

She turned the corner onto a wider street, breathing a sigh of relief in the glow of the streetlamp. _That isn’t true, Mr. Beecham_ , she thought, smirking despite the wind in her face. _Not anymore. I’m a working woman now; I’ll buy Father’s freedom myself. I needn’t throw myself to the mercy of a man like you._

* * *

What a sight she must have been, when she finally arrived an hour later at Mr. Carlyle’s doorstep: bonnet askew, skin raw and red, eyes streaming. For one agonizing minute, she waited for someone to answer her desperate knock.

“Miss Weston? What are you—?” Mrs. Hutchinson took one look at her disheveled state and put her questions on hold. “Well, come in out of the cold, then, don’t just stand there in the doorway.”

Mrs. Hutchinson ushered the shivering Viola into the foyer and hung up her snow-caked bonnet to dry.

“Good heavens, child, what a state you’re in,” the housekeeper muttered. “What are you doing back here at this hour? Were you not to return in the morning?”

Viola’s violently chattering teeth prevented her from giving a coherent explanation.

“Never mind that now, come in by the fire before you catch your death.”

Instead of going up to the first floor as she had earlier, they went downstairs to the kitchen, where a fire still smoldered in the brick hearth. Viola was directed to sit in a rocking chair beside it and hang up her wool stockings to dry. Mrs. Hutchinson clucked her tongue at the threadbare state of them, and then thrust a cup of beef tea into Viola’s frozen hands.

The kitchen was warm and cheerful, bright red bricks and woven straw mats. The copper pots and pans hanging above twinkled in the firelight. The storm outside the foggy window felt like a nightmare she was waking from, as her fingertips began to thaw. She burned her tongue on her tea.

“Better?” Mrs. Hutchinson asked, watching with raised eyebrows.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The housekeeper folded her arms over her chest. “Then perhaps you are ready to explain yourself, Miss Weston.”

Viola nodded, her stomach sinking with dread. “I do apologize for the inconvenience I’ve caused,” she began.

Before she could find the words to continue, there were footsteps on the stairs, and a familiar male voice.

“Mrs. Hutchinson? Is everything alright? I thought I heard someone at the—oh. Miss Weston, is that you?”

Mr. Carlyle froze in the doorway. He appeared to have already retired for the evening, for he wore a plum velvet smoking jacket. His gleaming amber eyes—pupils wide in this dim light—roamed over Viola’s sodden stockings and her shivering form.

All three of them winced as one of his gigantic antlers knocked against the brass pots and sent it clanging to the floor. His housekeeper must have been used to these kinds of disturbances, for she recovered her dignity first and continued as if nothing had happened.

“I wasn’t going to bother you over this, sir,” Mrs. Hutchinson said. “She appears to have gotten lost in the storm, and I didn’t think you would object to sheltering her.”

“Of course. Quite right, Mrs. Hutchinson.”

Viola decided to seize her chance before her resolve failed her. “Mr. Carlyle, might I have a quick word? Privately? I should like to explain myself.”

Mrs. Hutchinson’s brow pinched into a peeved expression; evidently she believed anything said to Mr. Carlyle could be said in her presence. But her employer was oblivious to her irritation.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Miss Weston,” he assured her. “All of that can wait until the morning.”

Viola gritted her teeth. _If I don’t come clean now, I’ll be up all night anticipating this conversation._

“Please, sir,” she said aloud, “I should much prefer to get it over with.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Carlyle, blinking a few times. “Mrs. Hutchinson, would you kindly prepare a bed in the servants’ quarters in the meantime?”

Mrs. Hutchinson nodded once, lips pursed, before exiting the kitchen with a surly swish of her skirts.

Only when the sound of her footsteps faded from their hearing did Mr. Carlyle sink cautiously into the chair opposite Viola’s before the fire. He waited for her to speak first with no signs of impatience. She fidgeted.

They were sitting much closer to each other than they had in Mr. Carlyle’s study earlier that day, and she could not help noticing even more peculiarities about his appearance. He was such an illogical mishmash of predator and prey. His legs were shaped more like the hindquarters of a deer, with the knees facing backward. His long ears seemed to swivel in the direction of sounds—now they were pricked up in curiosity. His long talons drummed on the arms of his chair, but when he caught her looking at them, he curled his hands into fists as if to hide the claws from her view.

He gently broke the silence.

“Miss Weston, I will not demand to know your secrets,” he said slowly, “especially not if it will cause you further distress.”

She shook her head, resigned. “Given that I’ve barged into you house at this late hour, I think you deserve an explanation.”

He remained silent as she gathered her courage. Wherever to begin? Where, in fact, did their miseries begin? It was difficult to trace the origins of their troubles. Her voice, when she found it, was low and hoarse.

“I told you that I needed to find work because of my father’s health,” she said at last. “That wasn’t a lie, but it was hardly the entire truth, either. Our situation is quite—bleak. He’s been imprisoned for debts. In the Marshalsea.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.”

Viola dared to glance up at him, her eyes shining but defiant, prepared for his contempt or his charity. His brow was furrowed, deeply thoughtful, but that was all. Best to lay the whole bare truth out now, she decided.

“We have lived there for six years, my father and I. My sister too, until she married last year.”

“Six years?” he repeated in a faintly horrified voice. “I didn’t realize such a thing was allowed in the civilized world.”

“I am allowed to come and go as I please, but the gates are locked to visitors after five. So you see, Mr. Carlyle, I had nowhere else to go tonight.”

He prompted quietly, “You were afraid to speak of this before?” 

“It’s quite a miserable thing,” Viola said with a bitter smile, “to be ashamed of one’s home and one’s family.”

“You believed I would judge your family for being in a debtor’s prison?”

“You might think us pathetic.”

“I think you _unfortunate_ ,” he clarified. “But that is hardly an indication of a person’s character or fortitude—merely of their circumstances.”

He leaned forward in his seat and lowered his voice, as if to keep their conversation a secret. In these close quarters, Viola couldn’t help noticing the long lashes on his catlike amber eyes. It was strange how familiar his expressions were, worn on such an uncanny, inhuman face.

“I _do_ understand, Miss Weston. You don’t want pity from others. I know that feeling all too well. People may mean well and only wish to help, but their pity is unbearable all the same.”

Viola looked down at the teacup in her lap, overwhelmed by the intense sincerity in his gaze. “I suppose you _would_ understand that feeling better than most, sir,” she mumbled.

There was a long moment of silence between them—not an uncomfortable pause, but one of tacit understanding. Then Mr. Carlyle seemed to recollect himself, and resumed his usual brisk manner.

“Look at me, chattering away when you likely want to drink your tea in peace,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “Though she’s too polite to say so, Mrs. Hutchinson does hate it when I intrude on her domain downstairs. Rest well tonight, Miss Weston. We won’t speak any more on this subject, if that is what you wish. You can rely on my discretion.”

Viola turned away to watch the glowing coals in the kitchen hearth. “Thank you, sir. I won’t forget the kindness you have showed me tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, if we want to get really pedantic, this story *technically* isn't set in the Victorian Era because Queen Victoria ascended the throne in June 1837, and our story begins about five months prior. 
> 
> I think the 1830s is a pretty interesting transitional period that gets unfairly neglected by historical romance writers (maybe it's the poofy sleeves that scares everyone away lol), so I wanted to try my hand at it. I might occasionally include some historical tidbits in the footnotes, but feel free to skip them if that's not interesting to you.


	3. A Fresh Start

Mrs. Hutchinson led Viola up the servants’ staircase to a small garret bedroom at the top of the house.

“The upper-servants sleep on the upper floors,” she explained over her shoulder, “but I daresay the rooms off the kitchen for the cook and scullery maid are more comfortable. It gets rather drafty up here in the winter and stuffy in the summer.”

Viola surveyed the room with a satisfied sigh. It had creaky floorboards and a low sloping ceiling. The utilitarian furnishings consisted of a nightstand and a brass bed.

“I think this will do very nicely for me,” she told Mrs. Hutchinson without a trace of irony.

The housekeeper raised her eyebrows at Viola’s enthusiasm. “If you say so,” she muttered.

Viola did not pay Mrs. Hutchinson’s skepticism any heed. This room boasted one enormous advantage over her ten-square foot cell in the Marshalsea: a large window with a view.

The single narrow window in their Marshalsea ‘apartment’ faced only the discolored bricks of the prison wall. She could not see the sky, nor even the iron spikes atop the wall to deter escape artists. Her only occasional splash of color came from the laundry hanging on the line, the grey chemises that had once been white. There was nothing green to be seen all summer, save the bare spindly weeds between the paving-stones. They were on the second of four stories in their prison complex, and there was another building directly behind them, so that Viola felt constantly closed in by bricks on all sides. 

Even when she was permitted to step outside the gates, the Marshalsea was always creeping up behind her, and she could not escape its shadow. Always trapped.

But here, in Mr. Carlyle’s house, she could breathe. She could see the slate-grey overcast sky above the rooftops; she could look down and see trees lining the cobblestone street, their branches glazed with frost. She could open the window and feel the fresh sting of the winter air.

Guilt gnawed on her, in the background of these hopeful observations, try though she might to wave it away. Was it so wrong of her, to want to leave her miserable circumstances behind? Was it selfish of her to escape like this, when she could not yet bring her father with her?

“Breakfast in the servants’ hall is served promptly at seven o’clock,” the housekeeper announced, abruptly cutting off Viola’s musing. “If you wish for a hot meal, do not be late.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hutchinson,” she replied with feeling, undeterred by her coworker’s sharp tone. “Before you retire, I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am for the opportunity you and Mr. Carlyle are giving me. I hope to prove myself worthy of his trust.”

The words were more deferential than she truly felt, but Viola could sense that Mrs. Hutchinson was suspicious of her in some way, and she wanted to be on better terms with her if they were to be working in close quarters. The housekeeper’s pursed lips relaxed a fraction as she continued to study Viola with that critical, piercing gaze.

“Mr. Carlyle has a partiality for waifs and strays,” Mrs. Hutchinson said at last in a clipped voice. “I need not explain why he feels a…kinship with those that society looks down upon. Therefore, it is incumbent on _me_ to protect him from those that would take advantage of his sympathies.”

“I understand,” Viola said, swallowing hard.

“Do you?”

Of course she did. Viola had lost plenty of sleep over her too-trusting father over the years. But she decided to hold her tongue.

Once alone, Viola rapidly undressed to her chemise. The earlier she retired for bed, the earlier she could rise and return to her father.

She caught her reflection out of the corner of her eye and winced. She had no looking-glass in her cramped quarters at the Marshalsea and usually made do with checking her appearance in the reflection on the single windowpane—an image that was indistinct at best. But the garret room had a large oval mirror propped on the nightstand and she was face-to-face with herself.

Was she really that ashen-faced, or was it just the layer of dust over the mirror? Her linen shift hung so loosely on her, exposing a prominent collarbone and bony shoulder. The shadows were deep under her dark brown eyes.

_Ugh, I look like a street urchin with consumption_ , she thought. _No wonder Mr. Carlyle took pity on me tonight._

Viola had a rather square jaw set on a long, slender neck, which automatically gave her a waiflike appearance at the best of times—and now was decidedly _not_ the best of times. Her hair was wispy and flaxen and did whatever it pleased.

She set the mirror face down.

The nightstand, she was pleased to discover, had been prepared for her stay: not only was there fresh water in the pitcher and a clean towel, but also a small cake of soap and a jar of tooth powder. She poured out a little water into the basin to wash her face, but found herself overcome. She had to brace herself on the nightstand and take a few deep breaths to swallow down a sob of incredulous relief.

The water was so clear and _clean_. It did not reek of rust. When was the last time she had used water without boiling it first? She couldn’t recall.

The garret room was chilly, as it had no fireplace, but when Viola pulled back the covers of the bed, she found a bed-warmer full of smoldering coals, which made the sheets invitingly warm. Exhausted and grateful, she fell asleep within minutes.

* * *

Viola went back to the Marshalsea early the next morning, to fetch her meager belongings and kiss her father goodbye. She was not expecting the scene she stepped into.

By the single narrow, grimy window stood Mr. Weston. Hardship had aged him prematurely—his hair was a solid iron grey, and sparse at the temples—and cataracts had taken almost all of his sight from him. He was speaking softly to his eldest daughter, Miranda, and had his hands soothingly upon her shoulders. While Viola had inherited their father’s slight frame, Miranda took after their mother with her tall, commanding figure, made all the more striking by her wide straw bonnet and puffed gigot sleeves.

At the sound of Viola’s entrance, they both looked up—Mr. Weston’s face brightening with relief, Miranda’s contorting with outrage.

“Oh my dear, we have been so worried,” he said.

Miranda glowered at her. “Where have you been, Vi? We have been scouring the city for you. I hope you have a good explanation.”

Viola presumed the ‘we’ in this case meant Miranda and her husband Eustace, given that their father was not allowed further than the courtyard outside.

“I told the gatekeeper to send word that I’d gone back to Mr. Carlyle’s house for the night because I missed the bell. Did he forget to pass along the message?”

Mr. Weston raised an eyebrow at Miranda. “There, now, what have I been telling you? I knew there must be a simple explanation—”

Unfortunately for him, Mr. Weston was much more softly spoken than his daughters and easily faded into the background during impassioned discussions. Miranda acted as if she had not heard him.

“Who in heaven’s name is Mr. Carlyle, and what do you mean by staying at his house?”

Viola took a deep breath to calm her temper. “He’s my employer, as of yesterday. I’m to serve in his household as a seamstress. I’m sorry to have caused such a fuss, but I thought you would know where I was.”

“We were about to start dragging the Thames for your lifeless body!” Miranda snapped. “For all we knew, you were frozen to death in the storm.”

Viola rolled her eyes. Her elder sister had once fancied herself a great actress, and even now always seemed to be auditioning for a Greek drama.

Miranda continued, gesturing to her heavily pregnant figure, “And I really ought not to be distressing myself so, not in my current condition.”

“I never asked you to distress yourself about me!”

“Well apparently someone has to, or you’ll gallivant about the city, staying at the houses of strange men!”

Before Viola could muster an angry retort, their father intervened.

“That’s quite enough from both of you,” he said, a note of pleading in his tone. “The important thing is that Viola is, in fact, safe and all is well. There is no need to quarrel over what is already past.”

He stood between the sisters for a long moment, waiting for their petty anger to deflate. Viola’s cheeks burned; their father had a way of making them feel like children caught misbehaving.

“I’m sorry for causing you to worry,” Viola said grudgingly. “It wasn’t my intention.”

“I’m sorry for getting so cross about it,” Miranda mumbled, picking at a loose thread on her coat.

“There, now,” Mr. Weston said briskly. “Was that so terribly painful?”

The sisters avoided each other’s eyes. Mr. Weston ignored their sullen silence and carried on as if the quarrel had never taken place.

“So, Viola, I take it you have accepted the position you interviewed for. Tell me about the house. Where does your employer live?”

“Near Covent Garden.”

“Oh dear.” Mr. Weston wrung his hands, troubled. “Is that a suitable neighborhood for you to be walking by yourself? It’s got rather an unsavory reputation.”

“That was true in your day, Papa,” said Miranda, “but it’s changed a good deal in recent years. They’ve rebuilt most of the houses. Now it’s considered quite a fashionable place to live.”

“Ah.”

Viola’s heart twisted painfully. Their father had been locked away for so long, and London was rapidly changing without him—when he was finally at liberty to walk the streets again, would he even recognize it?

“I’ll return every Sunday afternoon for dinner,” she promised him. “Mr. Carlyle has given me leave to visit you the entire day.”

Miranda cut in sharply. “You mean to say this will be a live-in position? How can you leave our father alone all week? How is he to manage by himself?”

Viola felt a renewed flicker of annoyance. Their father was still quite capable and independent; he did not deserve to be treated like a child or like a doddering old fool. But before she could speak up for him, he did it himself.

“Miranda, my dear,” he soothed her, “I may be blind as a bat, but I am not hopelessly infirm. I know this apartment well enough to get about without stumbling.”

Viola squeezed his hand. “Just promise me that you will ask Mr. Wilkins down the hall to help you light the stove fire in the mornings. I’m sure he won’t object.”

“I promise. I do still have _some_ sense, after all.” He gave her a wry smile.

As Viola predicted, Miranda seemed mollified at the notion of his fellow-inmates checking in on him daily. “Well,” she said briskly, “it seems I am overruled. Gather your things, Vi. Eustace and I can take you in the cab. You are not walking all that way carrying luggage.”

Viola had few personal belongings worth bringing; they fit neatly into a single carpetbag. She owned exactly three dresses at present: two sturdy, practical wool dresses of brown and navy blue, and one finer black gown reserved for holidays and funerals. She didn’t like wearing dark colors, but they lasted much longer against wear and tear and stains. A working woman ought not to wear pink or yellow, if she was at all sensible.

The dour colors did make her look so grim and severe, she reflected morosely. She dreamed of a day when she had spare money enough for a gown pale as springtime, in rosebud or lilac or buttercup. What a luxury that would be!

Underneath the faded chemises and shabby stockings, she tucked her one real treasure: a well-worn collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets, in the margins of which her mother had scribbled her own annotations.

In farewell, Viola took both her father’s hands and kissed them. “I don’t want you to worry about me, Father. This is going to be good for our family, I promise.”

“I know that, my dear,” he said gently. “It’s been clear to me for a long time that you would have to forge your own path.” He leaned over to murmur in her ear, soft enough that Miranda was unlikely to hear. “Try to have a little more patience with your sister. She’s only looking out for you.”

Even though he could not see Viola purse her lips, he must have heard the irritation in her sigh.

“Viola,” he chided. “Be kind to your sister. For my sake, if for no other reason.”

“I’ll try. And now I really must be going; Mr. Carlyle expects my return before noon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Viola and Miranda are both named after Shakespearian heroines. Extra credit for anyone who knows what plays they're from without googling it.
> 
> From what I understand, Covent Garden was basically the Victorian equivalent of a gentrified neighborhood: notorious as a red-light district during the late 18th century and the Regency Era (hence Viola's dad still thinks of it as a seedy part of town) but sort of rebuilt and rebranded as a market district by the 1830s.


	4. Settling In

Miranda insisted on accompanying Viola to the courtyard, on the pretense of helping her carry her meager luggage. From the firm grip her sister kept on her arm, Viola knew she was hoping to speak privately to her. The intense questions began as soon as they were out of their father’s earshot, though the elder sister maintained a veneer of polite curiosity.

“So. Covent Garden. Your employer must be quite well off. New money, I expect?”

“I believe so. I didn’t interrogate him on the subject.”

“Does he have any family in London? Where are his people from?”

“I have no idea. All I know is that he lives alone, so I assume he is unmarried.”

Miranda raised her eyebrows. “A bachelor? Is he very old?”

“No, I shouldn’t say a day over five-and-twenty.”

Viola didn’t know why that reply had slipped out (in truth, it was difficult to tell Mr. Carlyle’s age given his unusual appearance) but she wished her sister would come to the point, instead of pursing her lips in silent disapproval.

Conversation halted as they came to the front gate of the prison. The gatekeeper nodded civilly to them both as he let them out onto the cobblestone street, where Eustace Stubbs was keeping a carriage waiting for them. As usual, Miranda hardly spared her drab, colorless husband a glance as he helped the women into the cab.

Viola had yet to unravel Miranda’s reasoning for marrying Eustace—she seemed to regard him with more annoyance than affection, and that was when she noticed him at all. He was a clerk in a solicitor’s firm, and in his seven years there, had yet to advance or distinguish himself in any way. He tended to blend in with the very wallpaper of their home.

Perhaps Miranda had simply allowed Eustace to rescue her from the family troubles. After all, she now had a comfortable enough roof over her head, and was able to send a few shillings to the imprisoned Mr. Weston every month. But now with a child on the way, Viola doubted they could even set aside that much.

“You seem to know very little about your new employer,” Miranda observed as they settled into their seats. It was a tight fit: the carriage was only meant to accommodate two passengers. “Did you not ask _any_ questions about his background?”

Viola colored slightly, but she tried to maintain a cool demeanor. “It seemed impertinent to pry, and I didn’t wish to be rude. Especially not when he had behaved so graciously toward me.”

Miranda frowned, perplexed. “These are perfectly ordinary inquiries—why on earth should that be impertinent?”

Viola shrugged, trying to end the conversation by staring out the window as though fascinated. What could she say? She could not even find the words to describe her employer’s curious visage—her sister would think she had gone mad.

“Vi, please be careful,” Miranda said in a low voice. “Promise me. You’ve never been away from home for such a stretch of time.”

“You don’t need to worry about me so much. Mr. Carlyle is a gentleman and he’s been very kind to me already.”

“People aren’t always what they seem.”

That bleak warning hung in the air between them for a moment. They both knew exactly who Miranda was thinking of, though neither wanted to speak his name.

“It’s stopped snowing,” Eustace observed softly, more to himself than to Miranda and Viola. “Hopefully they can begin clearing the roads.”

Neither sister took up this feeble attempt at a new conversation topic. A frigid silence pervaded the rest of the journey.

“Vi, I know you can look after yourself,” Miranda said at last, twisting her gloves in her hands. “I know this must all sound patronizing from your point of view. I am only asking you to be _careful_. It’s a dangerous world for a woman alone.”

“I’m quite aware,” Viola snapped. Miranda’s direful warnings were not exactly encouraging, and Viola resented the constant reminders of her vulnerability.

But their father’s gentle admonition rang in her ears: _Be kind to your sister_. Through the haze of her annoyance, she felt a stab of guilt in her stomach. She inhaled sharply through her nose, trying to regain her composure.

“I’m sure you mean well, Miranda,” she said at last. “But things are finally beginning to look up for our family. I suppose I had rather hoped you would be more excited about my prospects.”

Before Miranda could respond, the carriage lurched to a halt. She peered curiously around the curtains.

“This is the house here? Number twelve, with the green shutters?” She appraised it with wide eyes.

“Yes it is,” said Viola, unable to suppress a hint of smug satisfaction: her sister was impressed at her employer’s house. “Well. Goodbye, Miranda, I shall see you for dinner on Sunday.”

“Eustace, will you bring her luggage to the door?”

“That’s—that isn’t necessary,” Viola said quickly, heart racing. What if they caught a glimpse of Mr. Carlyle himself? What would her sister have to say about that? She scooped up her carpetbag and jumped from the carriage before they could say another word. Her palms were sweating so excessively that her bag nearly slipped from her grasp as she strode toward the front door.

What had come over her? She wasn’t _embarrassed_ of Mr. Carlyle, was she? Why had she been so eager to hide him from her family?

She felt suddenly sick with herself.

Viola’s abstraction prevented her from noticing that there was already a figure on Mr. Carlyle’s threshold: a young woman dressed in plain muslin, hunched over as she scrubbed something off the door. She seemed quite engrossed in the task, so Viola cleared her throat loudly to make her presence known.

“Good morning,” Viola called cheerfully. “I’m sorry to interrupt your work—”

The maid startled, clutching her heart. “I didn’t see you there, Miss.”

Up close, Viola could see now that the maid was just a girl—scarcely fifteen or sixteen—and though her hands were chapped and her arms quite muscular from hard work, she had a plump, cheerful face with dimples. Strands of red hair escaped from under her plain linen cap. The maid stood, wiping her hands self-consciously on her coarse apron.

“I wonder if you could show me where the servants’ entrance is,” Viola said. “I should hate to make a poor impression on my first day.”

The girl’s face brightened with understanding. “Oh, you must be Miss Weston!”

“I take it I’m expected, then?”

“I’m Molly, the housemaid. I would shake your hand, but…” She held up her dirty hands sheepishly. “If you’ll just follow me, Miss Weston, I can take you to the servants’ hall.”

As Molly stepped away from the door, Viola realized she had been halfway through washing away what appeared to be graffiti, scribbled in childish writing with a piece of coal, a half-faded word in all capitals, stark against the bright green paint: MONSTER.

Molly followed her gaze. “It’s…neighborhood children, I think,” she said in an undertone, twisting the rag in her hands. “They don’t know any better. But I always try to wash it off before Mr. Carlyle sees.”

Viola frowned. “Does this happen often, then?”

“Often enough.”

Without another word, Viola took out her handkerchief and helped Molly erase the rude message from the door. She then followed the maid around the back of the building, to a set of stairs leading to the garden-level door.

“Please call me Viola,” she said as they entered the servants’ hall. “We are going to be working in close quarters, after all.”

Molly’s eyes widened. “Oh, Mrs. Hutchinson wouldn’t approve of that, Miss. I’m only the housemaid, you see—it would be impertinent if I spoke to the upper-servants on terms of equality.”

Viola sighed. It seemed there were rules of etiquette in this line of work of which she knew nothing.

Molly lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “First time in service?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Don’t fret about it. Mr. Carlyle is a _very_ patient employer and he doesn’t easily take offense. It’s Mrs. Hutchinson you must be careful of.”

Viola chuckled, some of the tension in her shoulders relaxing. This assurance fit into her early impressions of Mr. Carlyle’s character, but it was nevertheless a relief to have it confirmed by someone who knew him better.

“How long have you worked here?” she asked.

“Three years this February.” Molly drew herself up proudly.

“How many other servants are there, apart from ourselves?”

“There’s Mrs. Palmer, the cook, and Eliza the scullery maid, and Mr. Stockington, the groom—but you shan’t see much of him, as his rooms are above the carriage-house and he never takes his meals with us.”

“No butler? No footmen?” Viola’s knowledge of service was admittedly limited, but she knew it was a bit peculiar for a gentleman of means not to have a proper manservant. “Surely Mr. Carlyle has a valet, at least?”

Molly shifted her weight from one foot to the other, biting her lip. “Perhaps I ought not to mention it. I don’t want you to think I’m a gossip…”

Viola suppressed a grin. It was evident that Molly in fact longed to divulge the story and would do so with very little encouragement. “I promise to be discretion itself,” she said solemnly.

Molly dropped her voice to a stage-whisper. “There _was_ a valet, up until a year ago. But he was dismissed”—she paused dramatically—“for stealing.”

Viola raised her eyebrows.

“Poor Mr. Carlyle did not want to believe it at first,” Molly said, shaking her head. “He kept insisting the ivory cufflinks had only been misplaced. Then his gold watch-chain went missing—and a silver teaspoon—the evidence kept mounting until even _he_ couldn’t deny it any longer.”

“Good heavens. What a dreadful situation.”

“And even after all that, Mr. Carlyle couldn’t bear to dismiss him without a reference. Said the man would never find honest work again without a reference, and he’d have no choice but to revert to his criminal ways. Mrs. Hutchinson was fairly apoplectic about having to give a sneak thief a glowing character, I can tell you.”

“I can imagine,” Viola muttered darkly. It was no wonder Mrs. Hutchinson was so protective of her employer—he was determined never to think the worst of people, even when they gave him ample cause to.

Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of another servant—a broad-shouldered woman that Viola deduced from the flour dusting her apron must be the cook.

“Molly, have you been given a holiday that the rest of us don’t know about?” the cook barked. “I cannot think of another reason you would dawdle about in such a way.”

“No, Mrs. Palmer.” Molly quivered under her glare. She added in a whisper to Viola, “Come along. I’ll show you around, so that you can get settled.”

Molly led her on a quick tour so that Viola could begin to familiarize herself with the house. It was all just as comfortable and charming as the rooms she had already seen, but there were indications of Mr. Carlyle’s solitary bachelorhood: the stately drawing-room looked seldom used (indeed, the chairs looked so pristine that Viola doubted anyone had ever sat in them since the day they were purchased); and the guest bedrooms smelled stale, as if no one had ever set foot in them.

Mr. Carlyle also seemed to have occasionally eccentric tastes. The cavernous dining room, dark and shadowy with the curtains shut tight, was decorated with an odd centerpiece of interlocking antlers. It was hardly unusual for an ordinary man to display hunting trophies, but Viola found it curious for Mr. Carlyle. She couldn’t imagine him taking pleasure in killing creatures for sport.

Finally, Molly opened a door across the hall from Mr. Carlyle’s study. “This is to be your workroom, Miss Weston.”

Viola’s carpetbag fell from her fingers to the floor, disregarded. “This is for me?”

Molly smiled. “I’ll leave you to examine it, then. I must get back to my work, or Mrs. Hutchinson will have my guts for garters.”

“Of course,” said Viola, distracted. “Thank you, Molly.”

It must have once been a morning room intended for the lady of the house, for it had large east-facing windows that bathed the daisy-flecked wallpaper with golden sunlight. To her delight, she found it had already been repurposed as a workroom for her. There was a long table in the center, where she could cut and measure fabrics. A basket at the end overflowed with spools of thread dyed in every imaginable color, prickly pincushions, and tailor’s chalk.

She pulled open a drawer in the oak bureau and found it stuffed with bolts of fabric. She ran her fingers longingly over the black satins and jewel-toned velvets.

_This will be perfect_ , she thought with a satisfied nod. It was a small room, but her supplies were higher-quality than she had ever worked with before. Her employer really seemed to have thought of everything. There was even a rocking chair in the sunniest corner, so that she could take advantage of the light when embroidering fine details.

She knocked on Mr. Carlyle’s study door with only a hint of trepidation. When there was no response, she called his name.

“Come in, Miss Weston,” he responded in a distracted tone, and upon entering she understood why. He was hunched over his desk, intently studying a tiny object with a magnifying glass: a squirming beetle with iridescent orange wings, which he had trapped in a jar. He was sketching its likeness onto the journal spread out before him.

He did not look up from his beetle at her entrance, but he must have known she was approaching, for his long ears swiveled ever so slightly in her direction.

She craned her neck to look at his sketch of the insect. “That’s quite an accurate likeness, sir.”

Mr. Carlyle glanced up at her with wide eyes. “Do you think so, truly?”

Viola shrugged. “I’m hardly an expert, so I suppose one ought to take my opinions with a grain of salt. What exactly is that you’re sketching?”

He took a deep breath, as if to launch into a detailed explanation—but his enthusiasm deflated an instant later. “I won’t bore you with all of that,” he said quickly, shutting his sketchbook and turning his chair around to fully face her. “I trust you had a more pleasant journey back to us this morning than you did last night?”

Viola suppressed the urge to reply, _Not exactly, since I had to ride with Miranda_. “I did. Thank you, sir.”

“And do you have everything that you require, Miss Weston? I confess I’m not terribly knowledgeable on the subject and there was a certain amount of guesswork involved.”

“I believe so, sir. But today I shall take a proper inventory of all my supplies, and then I can inform you if I’m lacking anything important.”

“If you draw up your list tonight, I can give you money in the morning for anything you still need.”

“Oh.” Viola froze, taken aback. That Mr. Carlyle would trust her with any amount of his money, after knowing her so short a time—after learning of her family’s sordid history—was surprising to say the least.

“Unless you’ve some objection,” he added quickly, brow furrowed in concern at her hesitation.

“No, no,” she assured him, moving toward the door; “I’ll begin right away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took me so long, I got a bit stuck and ended up rewriting quite a bit of it. I'm trying to avoid large info-dumps of backstory, but I also have a lot of information I need to eventually impart...you see my conundrum? 
> 
> Anyways, a big thanks to those of you that are reading! I really wasn't expecting much of an audience response, given that "original" works don't tend to be super popular on any website, let alone AO3. All of your comments have made me warm and fuzzy inside.


	5. An Outing

The next morning, with a bank-note from Mr. Carlyle clutched in her fist, Viola prepared to run her errand. She chewed on her lip as she tied the ribbons of her bonnet, torn about whether to take a cab. On a bright spring day, a brisk walk to the shops would have been pleasant, but on a wintry morning with the biting wind on her face—especially on her return journey, when she would be laden with packages—it was a daunting thought.

Mr. Carlyle paused in his progress up the stairs. “Are you going out, Miss Weston?”

The practical voice in her head hissed, _He is your employer, it’s perfectly reasonable for him to pay your travel expenses. Just ask!_ Meanwhile, the fragile and proud part of her rankled at the thought of having to ask for a few pence.

She nonetheless kept her tone light and even. “I was going to visit a few shops on Yaxley Street for a few odds and ends.”

His face brightened. “I’m actually headed in that direction myself today; I’ll drop you off.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir, but you don’t have to—”

He waved a hand dismissively. “No sense in hiring a carriage when my curricle is going to the same destination,” he said with a shrug.

Viola was grateful he framed it this way: he was being sensible, rather than kind. It was only practical. That quelled much of her discomfort, and she managed a genuine smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Carlyle. I suppose you have a point there.”

He pulled on a heavy winter overcoat, but no hat—she supposed it would be an awkward fit between his antlers—and he still wore no shoes. His wide splayed toes probably gave him good traction in the snow, like snowshoes, but did he not get cold? She shook herself, breaking off her stare. It was rather impolite, not to mention improper, to be pondering her employer’s curious physiology.

Her eyes widened at the sight of the sleek, lightweight curricle that awaited them. It was drawn by two handsome white horses. She had never envisioned traveling in such an eye-catching vehicle.

Mr. Carlyle misread her hesitation. “Do you suppose you ought to have a chaperone? It’s an open carriage, but perhaps it’s still a bit improper…”

Viola snorted. “Sir, I’m not a _lady_. I am your servant. You needn’t worry about my reputation.”

The rules of behavior for fine ladies did not apply to working women of her class, she knew that much. But a small part of her was touched by his consideration, all the same.

He offered a hand—a paw?—Viola wasn’t sure what to call it—to help her into the carriage, but she studiously ignored him as she climbed in unaided. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his face fall a fraction.

Color crept into her cheeks as he settled into the seat beside her. He flicked the reins and the horses lurched forward. The two avoided each other’s eyes, pretending to be fascinated by the narrow brick houses slowly rolling by their windows.

Viola’s heart shriveled with regret. _What must he be thinking of me now? He was only trying to be a gentleman, and I rejected the gesture_. From his point of view, it had surely appeared she was disgusted or afraid to touch him. How could she explain her own stubborn distaste for accepting any kind of help? She scrambled for a way to salvage the situation.

Eventually she chanced a glance at her employer. Mr. Carlyle smiled at her, but it did not reach his eyes. He had curled his free hand into a fist over his knee, hiding the sharp claws in the folds of his coat.

She tried to apologize by starting conversation.

“So, Mr. Carlyle, did you—did you grow up here in the city?” Her voice cracked in her attempt to sound airy and unconcerned.

“No, as a matter of fact, I was raised in a village to the southeast. I’ve only lived in London for three years now.”

She thought of the wildflower motifs on the furnishings in his home, and wondered if perhaps he was homesick for the countryside.

The customary inquiries about his family stuck in her throat. Could she ask him that? She was certainly _curious_ about his origins. Were his parents…like him? But she didn’t want to cause him even more discomfort than she already had. What if his past was a painful subject?

“Miss Weston,” he said gently, not taking his eyes off the road, “anything you would normally ask a new acquaintance, you may ask of me. You have been honest with me about your own history—it would be only fair of me to return your honesty in kind.”

She exhaled a gust in relief. “I just didn’t want to be impertinent.”

“That sounds a bit out of character for you,” he observed.

She shot an indignant glare up at him—even when they were seated, he towered far above her—but the twitch of his lips told her that he spoke in jest. The tension between them broke as they began to chuckle.

“Very well, sir, I shall proceed to be impertinent,” Viola said, smirking, “since apparently that’s what you expect from me. Are your parents still living? Do you have family nearby?”

“I never knew them,” he replied evenly. “I was a foundling on the vicarage doorstep, so my blood relations are quite a mystery to me.” He held up his free hand to stop her from interjecting. “And please don’t be sorry. The vicar and his curate took me in and raised me as their own. They are upright and goodhearted men. I could not have asked for better guardians, truly.”

Viola absorbed this for a moment, struggling for a response that didn’t sound pitying. “The son of clergymen…I would not have guessed that.”

“I think John—the vicar—had hopes that I would follow in his footsteps and take orders,” Mr. Carlyle said. “But somehow, I don’t think I could inspire much confidence in a congregation. Public speaking is not my forte.”

“Now _that_ doesn’t surprise me,” Viola said dryly.

They arrived at their destination much quicker than Viola anticipated. She hopped out of the carriage, eager to warm herself by walking around. The snow drifted lazily onto their shoulders, meandering in the air before coming to rest in clumps on her shawl. She buried her hands more deeply into her sleeves.

She had wondered what it would be like to walk alongside him in public. To her dismay, it seemed some of her concerns were justified.

A woman laden with baskets of fruit widened her eyes and crossed to the opposite side of the road to avoid passing by them. Several children pointed and stared, open-mouthed, until their mothers ushered them away with nervous haste. A lamp-lighter froze halfway up his ladder as they approached, not seeming to notice he was off-balance until he toppled sideways.

Viola glanced sidelong at her employer. Ought she to say something? Or would it be best to pretend not to notice the stares they received? He kept his gaze determinedly fixed forward, features arranged in a pleasantly neutral expression.

But one of his paws, she noticed, was worrying a loose thread on his coat sleeve.

“What shop did you wish to visit first?” he asked her, in a tone that was almost theatrical in its lightness. “The haberdasher’s? Or perhaps the curiosity shop on the corner?”

The shop window to her right caught her eye—a china-shop displaying painted porcelain sugar bowls and teapots. She was particularly transfixed by the blue willow pattern, so like the plates her mother had once displayed in their china cabinet. A lump rose in her throat. She remembered how those dishes had mysteriously disappeared, one by one, from their cupboard—she had not understood until years later that her mother had been pawning them as their circumstances grew more desperate. How it must have galled her mother, to sell her beloved comforts for a pittance.

Viola had once dreamed of buying them back someday, to bring a smile back to her mother’s grave countenance. Now it was far too late for that. And they were only plates, after all.

Mr. Carlyle’s voice broke into her reverie as if from a great distance. “Would you like to look around in there first?”

She laughed. “I do not need any dishware at present.”

“There’s no harm in looking. It can be amusing to simply look at pretty things.”

“Well…just for a moment, perhaps. Just to get out of the cold.”

He made no move to follow her to the door.

“I think I shall wait here, Miss Weston,” he said with a sheepish smile. “I do not trust myself in a small shop full of breakable items…I suppose you have heard the phrase ‘a bull in a china shop.’”

“Will you not be cold out here, sir?”

He waved aside her concern. “My winter coat keeps me quite comfortable, I assure you.”

It took her a moment to realize he meant his shaggy fur, not his woolen overcoat. She wondered if he even needed to wear winter garments at all, or if it was merely a gesture of propriety. Yet another audacious question to add to the long list building up in her mind.

Despite her misgivings, she did enjoy quietly wandering the shop and looking at the ceramic curios on every shelf. The shopkeeper must have correctly surmised that she could afford to buy nothing here—her plain work dress spoke volumes—so she was left to her own devices. When she exited the shop, Mr. Carlyle was gazing longingly into the next window, which displayed a variety of men’s hats.

“I’ve always wanted a top hat for evenings,” he told her with a wistful shrug, “but nothing will fit quite right with these.” He gestured impatiently to his antlers.

“It’s a pity I know nothing of hat-making. Perhaps you will need to hire one of those next, sir.”

He chuckled as they moved on.

It was at the haberdasher’s that Viola obtained what she had come for—a pair of long, sharp scissors suitable for cutting heavier fabrics—but she was reluctant to end their outing. Mr. Carlyle’s company was pleasant, and far from overbearing. She felt so far from her usual troubles and anxieties, as if a physical burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

She might have invented excuses to continue window-shopping for another hour—had she not seen _him_.

Over the course of the morning, the streets had become more crowded. Shoppers bustled to and fro with their packages. Children in shabby clothes darted ahead of pedestrians to sweep the mud and snow from their path in exchange for a ha’penny. Gigs and hackney coaches rattled by. But through the chaos, on the opposite corner, Viola glimpsed a familiar figure.

A chill run through her bones.

No—she could very well be mistaken—surely it wasn’t him. The face had disappeared into the crowd so quickly that she could not be sure. Yet she could identify that receding hairline, those greedy, glittering eyes anywhere.

Even if it _was_ Mr. Beecham—what was terribly extraordinary about running into an acquaintance in a popular shopping district, purely by chance? It did not mean he was following her. Perhaps he had not even noticed her!

And yet, she swore she had glimpsed a flicker of recognition mirrored in his eyes.

It was childish to avoid Mr. Beecham thus. He was not a villain out of a penny dreadful, with preternatural powers. He was just an unpleasant man who had ruined her family. Yet he had an uncanny ability to make Viola feel powerless, feel like resisting his plans was a futile struggle.

The only thing that gave her courage to face him was that he was _contained_ : she sought out his counting-house under her own power, and his presence did not bleed further into other aspects of her life. The thought of confronting him with Mr. Carlyle at her side, the idea that he could taint this new chapter of her life simply by inserting himself into it, made her queasy.

“Mr. Carlyle,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady, “would you mind terribly if we turned back towards home?”

“Of course. Is everything alright?”

She forced a smile. “Oh, yes. I’m just rather tired, that is all.”

“If you’d like to wait here, I can have the carriage brought ‘round.” There was a faint note of concern in his tone.

The notion of being left alone on a street-corner sent an irrational shiver of panic through her. “No need, sir, I can walk with you. Although, if—if it is not an imposition, could I avail myself of your arm?”

He blinked. “Yes, of course,” he said, recovering from his surprise and offering his elbow to her. As she linked her arm through his, she noticed a lightness in his step.

_I hope I’ve redeemed myself for my earlier rejection of his civility_ , she thought.

She glanced backwards at the teeming street, but there was no sign of Mr. Beecham. She released a sigh of relief and tightened her grip on Mr. Carlyle’s arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical tidbit time: 
> 
> 1) The curricle was basically the sports car of the early 1800s. It had two wheels and could only seat two people, so it was fast and easy to maneuver. But (unusually, for such a small vehicle) it was drawn by two horses, for the sake of conspicuous consumption. You don't waste your resources feeding and housing two horses for a tiny carriage unless you've got cash to burn. That's probably why curricles were most associated with wealthy bachelors.
> 
> 2) Mr. Carlyle wasn't being over the top when he wondered if Viola should have a chaperone. He was trying to treat her like a member of his own social caste. Single men and women in polite society were not supposed to walk together in public unless they were either related or betrothed. And fine ladies did not go anywhere without a chaperone to escort them (a female relative or married friend, or a servant would do in a pinch).
> 
> Viola scoffs because these customs didn't really apply to working-class women, who frankly didn't have time to be treated like fragile creatures whose virtue needed to be guarded.


End file.
